


Lost songs and hidden pages

by JamieDragon



Series: Out of sight [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Not Beta Read, Permanent Injury, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieDragon/pseuds/JamieDragon
Summary: Jaskier tries to come to terms with the loss of his sight, and with what it may mean for his future.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Out of sight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840867
Comments: 13
Kudos: 341





	Lost songs and hidden pages

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in almost a decade, so... be kind? Please?  
> Just a little hurt/comfort as I channel a bit of my depression (just the feelings, I'm not blind).  
> English isn't my first language, so sorry for any mistakes.

The bags were there, by the door, just as Geralt had said. Jaskier sat down on the floor slowly, body still stiff and aching. Longing for a bath he had gone in search of his favourite soap. Geralt had offered to get it for him, but Jaskier had refused. He had to be able to do things by himself, and finding a soap was far from a difficult task. Still, he couldn’t stop his hands from quivering slightly as he opened his bag.

Slowly he started going through his things. Probably slower than he had done in a long time, if ever. Familiar shapes and textures under his fingers. Familiar and at the same time so new and foreign.

But it could be worse. So much worse. That's what he had kept reminding himself the last couple of days.

It was a long time since he had to watch what he was doing to be able to play. His fingers knew the lute completely, able to find the right positions and bring forth the right sounds on their own. No, he could still play. It could be much worse. And still…

His thoughts were interrupted as he pushed a shirt aside and found smooth leather underneath. A square shape. His song book.

Carefully he opened it, feeling a sudden pain in his chest. The bookmark brought him to the latest song he'd been working on, and he turned the pages backwards, towards the beginning. The unexpected ache seemed to grow with each page he turned. They were there. His songs. And yet he could never see them again. And worse than that, he could never again see everything that wasn't a song.

Tracing fingers over the paper he could feel the words there. On some pages quite literally. The patches where wine or tears had made the paper wavy. Or where too much emotion, whether good or bad, had pushed the nib of the pen through, creating tiny jagged lines. And still he could not read what was written there.

The only way to get the words back would be to ask someone for help. Ask someone to read to him. But that thought made him hesitate. The book didn't only keep his songs, both finished and fragmented, but also the inspiration for the songs, his ideas, his feelings, his thoughts. He imagined letting someone else read it would feel close to how it would be letting someone read your journal. In many ways the book was his journal. Though mostly related to music, the notes reminded him of where he had been when inspiration struck, of people he had met, of things he had experienced.

It was all gone. And all still there. Just out of reach.

If he didn't share it with someone, but that felt… all too big.

The obvious person was of course Geralt. And he trusted Geralt, he really did. He would gladly put his life in the hands of the witcher. But he was not as sure that he trusted himself. 

He couldn't possibly remember everything he had ever written in that book. What if Geralt would find something he didn't like? Something that hurt him? Something that turned his opinion of Jaskier? He couldn't take that risk. Risk losing Geralt in the hopes of not losing some of his unfinished music and forgotten memories? He couldn't do that. And even if he did… He was quite sure Geralt didn't read notes, so how would he be able to convey the scattered scores and melodies to Jaskier? Especially since even Jaskier himself sometimes had a hard time knowing what the song he'd written down was supposed to sound like.

It was impossible. It was all impossible.

And the pain in his chest had grown, widened, turned into a seemingly bottomless hole.

"What's wrong?"

Geralt's voice dragged Jaskier back from the cliff, at least somewhat. He shook his head. "Nothing."

"You're crying."

"No, I'm not," he answered stubbornly, though his voice wasn't as steady as he wished it was. "And it's very rude to sneak up on people. Don't they teach witchers any manners?"

"Jaskier."

"I said I'm fine!"

Geralt's only answer was a sigh, and Jaskier could hear the witcher moving closer and sitting down next to him. Before he could repeat how just fine and perfect and not at all horrible he and everything was, Geralt's arms were around him and Jaskier was pulled close to the other man's chest. Jaskier was about to push him away, but his tired body won out. The warm strength was too much of a comfort and he heard himself sob, hands tightening in the black shirt as his songbook fell to the floor.

"You are not fine. But… it's okay. That you aren't."

"I just… keep thinking about everything I didn't get a chance to see." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but he never worried that Geralt couldn't hear him. "And… and everything I did see. And I know how fucking stupid it is, but that's almost worse in a way. Not getting to see the ocean again, or the sunset, or… or gods I'm such a cliche! The fucking sunset! How stupid is that!"

Geralt made a low noise, but Jaskier didn't let him interrupt. He couldn't.

"And I think of my writing, my songs, and… What if the beginning of my best song is in that book and I can't remember it now and can never write it because I don't remember and it's gone! And I think of that light, that fucking horrible fucking light and how… how that was the last… How everything just…"

He realized he was rambling a bit and took a shaky breath in an attempt to steady himself. 

"I know it doesn't really matter, but I hate that it was magic… that the last thing I saw, will ever see, was… fucking magic…"

He was quiet for a few long moments as tiredness started pushing most of the other feelings away, at least for a while.

"I wish it… I wish it had been you, that I saw. That the last thing was you. That I got to see you again."

"You will." Geralt sounded gruff as always, but it was a comforting sound, and Jaskier could detect the care in his voice. "We'll find a way."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Jaskier mumbled.

"We'll find a way," Geralt repeated. "And I'm here. For you. I'll be your eyes."

"You will?" Jaskier couldn't help lifting his head, as if he would be able to meet Geralt's gaze.

"Hmm." Geralt's fingers patted his hair, slightly awkward as if the witcher still couldn't really believe he was allowed to do that. "You are my… annoyingly loud voice. It's only fair."

Jaskier chuckled, the first time in days, and closed his eyes. Resting his head against Geralt's chest he could hear the slow steady rhythm of the witcher's heartbeat. "Thank you."


End file.
